There I am, dear friends.

That is Ebben Owens.
You know him now as what he is--a liar--a sot--a thief! You will turn me out of your 'Sciet.' You are right; I am not worthy to be a member of it.

I don't want anyone's pity, I only want you to know me as I am, and may God forgive me." And he sat down amidst breathless silence, his hands sunk deep into his pockets, his chin resting on his chest.

Shame, repentance, and sorrow filled his heart, and it required all the strength of his manhood to keep back the tears which would well up into his eyes.

It was all so still in the chapel, not a word of sympathy; even a word of reproach would have been acceptable to the miserable man, who could not read beneath the surface, the tumult of varied feelings which were surging through the hearts of the congregation.
Suddenly two heavy paws were resting on his knee, and Tudor's warm breath was on his face as he tried to lick the old man's bare forehead.
The touch of sympathy was more than he could bear, he rose hastily to his feet, and, followed by the dog, passed out of the chapel, leaving Gwilym Morris, with a tremble in his voice, to bring the meeting to a close.
Although he had sometimes strayed into the chapel Tudor had never before been known to invade the sanctity of the "big seat," and what brought him there on this particular evening was one of those mysteries which enshroud the possibilities of animal instinct.